


Pieces

by ZAIBACH



Category: Death Note & Related Fandoms, Death Note (Anime & Manga)
Genre: Blowjobs, Eye Licking, God Complex, Grief/Mourning, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Light is a cokewhore and Mikami just wants to love him, M/M, Obsessive Behavior, mentions of Lawlight but L is uhhh dead, shades of petplay and master/slave but not enough to tag it tbh
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-14
Updated: 2020-10-14
Packaged: 2021-03-08 19:54:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,266
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27002296
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ZAIBACH/pseuds/ZAIBACH
Summary: Light can't give everything away.
Relationships: Mikami Teru/Yagami Light
Comments: 14
Kudos: 87





	Pieces

**Author's Note:**

> Content warning for: drug use, unhygienic acts. Be safe!

It began when L died. Light thinks of the memory almost as a bystander, as if he’d watched himself catch L’s lifeless body and had never been party to the pained, accusing gaze directed straight at him. When he went to bed that night, he saw those eyes. When he dreamt, ate, worked, bathed, drove, lived, he saw those eyes. Great black pits ready to swallow him up if he fell prey to them. And fallen prey he had, though not conventionally, not in a way L would ever come to appreciate- it was a slow, agonizing death for Light Yagami, suffocated in that great black pit until his lungs gave out. 

Light starts drawing them. He’s unsure why exactly he starts, how it came to be, but his pencil is so precise and sure on recreating L’s eyes, dull and glazed with death. Light draws them again and again until his fingers bleed, until he can see himself in them, reflecting a person he does not recognize. He’s wasted a considerable amount of paper in his sketchbook, but he can’t bring himself to feel ashamed of it. L was his greatest conquest, his only real rival- his death should be immortalized. 

The excuse sounded weak even to Light’s tired mind. 

It isn’t until he finds himself seeing those eyes on every person he meets that he realizes he can’t live this way. But there’s ways to forget, he knows, and that gives him just a little spark of hope. For all the drug-free touting the Japanese government enforced, it was relatively easy to get drugs. You throw enough money around and something will stick- in this case, it was cocaine. He spends all day around his father and co-workers, cordially smiling and remaining engaged with them as the little plastic bag burned a hole in his pocket. 

He kept it with him, not thinking of trying it, not really- he knew the risks well enough. It was like a security blanket, insurance for when the black pits became too deep and swallowed him whole. His father had instilled a hatred for drugs that only a police officer could, and yet there was an appeal. There’s a day he doesn’t care to recount where his father clapped a hand over his shoulder, looked awkwardly into his eyes, and demanded to know what was wrong with his son, he’s getting thinner, he’s always tired, Ryuzaki’s death must be affecting him more than we thought, they were friends, weren’t they? Poor boy, my poor boy, my son is so resilient, isn’t he?

Light went home and tried it that night. The instant rush of euphoria went straight to his grief, to every negative thought and feeling he’d ever had, and killed it. 

...

It got worse, of course, more frequent than Light would have predicted. He’d never pegged himself to have an addictive personality, but the lifestyle he led was nearly impossible to keep up without a little something extra. He kept up his veneer of being L around the task force, frequently excusing himself to snort coke in the bathroom, all just to keep his mind active, awake. Sobriety was like living on auto-pilot, and all he could see were those fucking eyes.

His body and his patience grew thinner, he snapped at the Task Force more often, he rarely smiled. His own reflection mocked him, the small traces of baby fat that had graced his cheeks merely a year ago were gone, replaced with gaunt cheekbones and thin, tired eyes. He was beginning to look more like the ghost L Lawliet left behind. It made him sick. Everything made him sick, lately. He spent more time on his knees vomiting watery bile than he spent trying to keep his facade more convincing. He wasn’t grieving. He wasn’t.

One night, after a round of vomiting, he felt a buzz in his pocket, and unsheathed his phone to find a barrage of texts from Misa. Now that they’d moved in together she was always asking after him, offering to cook and clean in exchange for what she’d deem quality time together. In reality, all she wanted were the scraps of physical attention he’d throw her every now and again- a kiss here, a touch there, the secure feeling of arms around her as she’d drift off to sleep. She never asked more of him and he never offered, acutely aware that the strain of Light performing in that way would only hurt them both. It didn’t stop her from wanting him, from asking for everything else; he owed her so much, after all.

Well, fuck that. 

He wouldn’t go home tonight. He wouldn’t call Takada for the same reasons, although she was altogether shrewder and more demanding. Sniffing, he thumbs through the various names and numbers on his contact list before hovering over one: Mikami Teru. Light was confident he’d pick up, even more confident that he’d do whatever was asked of him, no matter how asinine. He dials, and not two rings later hears the smooth, professional voice of the prosecutor.

“Mikami Teru speaking,” He’s slightly breathier, like he’d been doing something strenuous.

“How quickly can you be at the Grand Hyatt?”

A beat, an audible inhalation of breath over the crackling of the speaker. Light isn’t sure if it’s from excitement or irritation on Mikami’s part, but he’s only come to associate the man with his unwavering loyalty. Never one to talk back, demand, or filibuster his way into things...perhaps that’s what separated him the most from the haphazard team Light had built on his back. 

“God,” Mikami wavers, clearly trying to compose himself. “I am near my home. It would be two hours minimum.”

“I suppose that’ll have to do. Make arrangements to be there as soon as possible and clear your schedule for tomorrow. I’ll text you the room number shortly. Do you need money wired to you for the trip?”

“I- no. My funds should be sufficient.”

“Good. Two hours, Mikami.”

Click. Light snapped his phone closed, exhaling long and pained from the rawness of his throat. He goes through the arduous process of peeling himself off the (thankfully) spotless bathroom floor to get himself looking somewhat presentable within the next two hours. He undressed, showered, flushed his insides, stared disdainfully at the puffy face reflected in the mirror. Light was still beautiful, he knew- but if someone knew what to look for, he’d be found out in a moment. His eyes were so bloodshot he looked like he hadn’t slept for days, the blood vessels in them expanding, staining the white.

In moments like these it’s hard not to compare the ugly, pathetic person that he was now to the optimistic youth of only a handful of years ago. He remembered going to his parent’s house to pack his things before the move, seeing the pictures of a proud, clean-cut teenager lining the walls, all the various plaques and mantles of the pointless rewards he’d managed to garner in life. They were trinkets to make his parents feel better, to reminisce on, and Light wanted nothing to do with them. He took nothing sentimental from the house and left his old room spotless only for all the picture frames turned to face the wall. 

Light doesn’t know how long he spends in front of that mirror, naked, analyzing everything about the body he’d started to ruin, coming to hate it. It was still serviceable, still usable, still desirable- but he hated it. Senseless years thundered by without L touching him, reminding him of what he was, and now he no longer recognized himself. 

It’s long enough that he shivers from the wetness of his hair and finishes his practiced routine of blow drying, moisturizing, brushing and primping until he’s presentable enough to put his clothes on. Mikami is used to seeing him in tailored suits or nothing at all, but he doesn’t have the energy for that; he throws a black turtleneck over his head with dark dress pants and calls it a night. The clothes were just a formality, anyway. Mikami wouldn’t care.

…

There’s a knock at the door; three, precisely. Sharp, not too loud. The same as always. He’d told Mikami to let himself in, the door was open, but the man was too polite. He can’t help himself, even in a situation like this. Even when they’re alone, when Mikami enters the room and knows what they’re about to do, the veneer of pleasantries never dulls. He hasn’t even looked at Light yet, who’s sipping contemplative on a glass of merlot. Mikami goes through his checking routine, and Light knows him well enough to leave him alone until it’s over.

The ritual starts always with his jacket, carefully unbuttoning it and placing it on the hanger. Then, his shoes, slipped off one by one and placed with pinpoint accuracy next to Light’s. He always lingers there, aligning both of their shoes until they’re completely straight, unable to move on. Once he does, Mikami allows himself to look at Kira- at Light Yagami. These physical meetings always have an air of importance, worship breathed into every moment they’re together, but still he must make the distinction.

Kira is God. Kira is justice. Kira carries out judgments for the good of the world, to remake humanity anew. 

Light Yagami is a man. He’s young, ambitious, broken, devastatingly beautiful; his flesh tears and bleeds. His voice cries out under cover of darkness, begging for more. He has vices. Still, he is utterly holy. It is for mankind’s salvation that his resolve breaks, in these little moments where Light-the-man and Kira-the-god crack and separate, and Mikami was chosen (him, only him) to pick up the pieces, to make Light whole again. He sees the younger man finish his wine in one fell swoop, feels the tension radiate off of him and already knows the sort of supplication Light yearns for. Still, he waits to be addressed.

“Teru,” Light begins, and Mikami nearly seizes each time he hears his given name pass from those plush lips. “How was the ride?”

“Adequate, God. The late hour made it peaceful. The train was on time.”

“Of course,” Light nods, uncrossing his long, dark-clad legs. “Take your glasses and belt off. Come over here.”

The command is smooth, confident, and Mikami doesn’t miss a beat. His glasses are slipped off, put into the case he keeps in his pocket, and left on the table. His fingers don’t linger nervously at the clasp of his belt anymore, not like they used to, and when he pulls it through the loops and onto the table, he can hear Light hum. He hasn’t taken two steps toward Light before Light snaps his fingers, loud, cracking through the air. 

“That’s not how you come to me, Teru. Do it properly.”

Mikami’s need to be chastised by Light isn’t satiated yet, but the hiss of his words is enough to tide him over as he gets on his hands and knees. The floor is cold marble against his palms, unforgiving on his knees, but he’s determined to make the performance good even as they hurt, even as his cheeks burn with shame. Slowly, with less confidence than he’d like, Mikami crawls. It’s fitting, he thinks, looking up at Light from the floor, truly a God. Light’s legs part invitingly for Mikami to fit between them, closer and closer as he crawls, scrabbling nails against the marble as the distance closes in. 

“Good. That’s my good boy,” Light coos as Mikami settles between his legs, sitting up on his knees like the trained pet he was. Light has warm, soft hands; they feel good running through his dark hair, fingertips tracing his cheeks, jaw, lips. He forces his thumb past Mikami’s lips, the pad of his finger leaving salt on his tongue, pressing down on a sharp canine. He moans at that contact alone, degrading as it is, even as Light’s other two fingers slip in too, stretching his mouth wide and making him gag. He loved Light’s cruelty delivered with the benevolence of Kira. 

“That’s right. Open up, Teru,” Light mutters, so quiet it’s almost to himself. He leans forward more, bringing Mikami closer to him at the same time with fingers in his mouth and tangled in his hair, angling his face up to him. Mikami’s eyes are watering with the strain of Light’s fingers so deep down his throat, but he’s still focused, almost smiling around the intrusion. Light smiles back, polite, and his teeth are still bared when he leans down to clean up the saline tears. His tongue takes the path his fingers did, around his lips, up a curved cheekbone, lapping at the edge of his waterline where the tears gathered. 

Light’s tongue is close enough to touching his eye that he closes it instinctively, which earns him less air to breathe, nails scratching at the back of his throat. It’s painful, his airway is constricted and he cries more without realizing- Light licks that up, too. The hand that was twisted in his hair pries one of his eyes wide open, and he can see Light so clearly up close it makes him want to pray. The kanji jumbled above his head that spelled Light Yagami was visible, glaring, and yet in that moment it was God staring him down, moonlight blazing behind his head. 

“Beautiful, beautiful eyes, Teru. Who do they belong to?” Light grants him the luxury of speech by removing his fingers from his throat, if only temporarily, his own saliva running down his chin and soaking his collar.

“G-God...they belong t-to God,” Mikami says, voice roughened. 

“Who do you belong to?”

“God.” Surer, more confident that time. There’s a smile on Light’s face. 

“Who am I?”

“God.”

He made himself clear. There was to be no further complaint from his faithful, avenging angel. He brings his lips down, kissing around the eyelid, feeling lashes flutter automatically against his lips. The wet muscle emerges then to lave across his eye: cornea, sclera, pupil, all the way to the deep crimson of his iris. It’s a strange, horrible sensation, but he can’t hate it. Any experience Light imposed upon him was wonderful, and so he cried out for joy, moaning as his tongue slid briefly underneath his eyelid and then out, back into his mouth. Light moves back a little, but doesn’t let him go. Again his fingers pry Mikami’s now cracked lips open, sore jaw creaking along with it, but this time the intrusion is more than welcome. 

“Stick out your tongue. Good.”

Light spits. It’s so horrifically crude that it sends a shock of arousal straight to Mikami’s cock, his whole body shivers as Light’s saliva hits his tongue. There’s still a thin trail of it hanging off his lower lip, and Mikami moans when it finally hits his tongue. He hasn’t swallowed yet, waits until Light instructs him further, but the younger man only draws closer. Light’s own eyes are wide open as he claims Mikami’s mouth in a kiss, both of them open-mouthed and panting. Mikami can’t even keep his eyes at this, falling closed in utter bliss as they finally, finally make intimate contact. Kissing is something that lovers did, and while Mikami did not currently have the luxury to call upon Light in that way, it was a future he hid in his heart for safekeeping. Kissing Light is an experience all it’s own, and he gave and took in equal measure. He nips at Mikami’s lips almost playfully as his tongue explores his mouth with hungry fervor until he suddenly pulls off.

“You can touch me now, Teru...but pull your pants down first,” Light huffs, beginning to undo his own pants before sitting back in his chair. They’re pulled down just enough so that his flushed cock towers over his bared thighs, down to his ankles. “Service me. Touch yourself, but don’t cum.”

Mikami needs no further preamble. His lower half is already bared, cock sprang from his pants and leaking in his hand as he positions himself between Light’s legs again. He wastes no time giving Light’s cock the attention it deserves, licking up and down the shaft with the heft of it resting against his face, the way he knows Light likes it. He enjoyed the carnality of seeing it poised on the elegant planes of his face before Mikami sucked it down his bruised throat. He was no paramour, had never entertained the thought of doing this with another man until he was alerted to Light Yagami’s existence. His inexperience is made up for tenfold in enthusiasm as he sucks on his cock with loving caresses of his tongue, swirling around the head, making him choke. It still felt good, he knew, even with his amateur ability, because Light was so tensed up, hands tightened once more in Mikami’s hair. He liked to mess up the meticulous style into something more wild every time, and he never questioned it. 

“That’s it, yes, hah- all of it, all of me. Aren’t you grateful?”

It’s rhetorical. Mikami is, of course, thrilled to even be in the same room with Light. Giving him this sloppy blowjob in an expensive hotel room is some shade of heaven for him. He’d almost completely neglected himself until he found the motivation to wrap his hand around his own cock, pumping it slow and rough as he worked Light over. Light pulls all the hair from his face so it’s out of the way, like a ponytail, collecting the thickness in his hand and starting to pump his hips into Mikami’s face.

This, Mikami thinks, is what he likes the most about this particular event. Light always got impatient, haughty- he’d use Mikami’s mouth like he imagined Light would use a woman, rough, with no regard for his comfort. He’d choose Light’s cock bruising the back of his throat over air any day, he thought, moaning between chokes of air. Light pulled him in more harshly then, so painful he couldn’t help but curl his fingers and toes in to cope with it- and he tastes the hot release of Light’s cum heady and bitter on his tongue. He moans just to taste it, to feel the texture in his mouth, to know holiness- and swallows it because he wants that holiness inside of him.

Of all the defiling of his body, he’s never felt more clean. 

Light pants, huffing loudly as he shoves Mikami off, his soft cock slipping from his mouth. He sits back, threading his own auburn hair through shaking fingers, seeming to barely notice Mikami shivering in arousal before him until he makes a pathetic noise.

“Ha, Teru. Good down to the last drop,” Light says, now a little hoarse from his orgasm. “You can cum so long as you think you’ll be ready to do it again in...oh, forty minutes or so.”

No sooner do the words leave Light’s lips that Mikami is fisting his cock with single-minded accuracy, tugging and stroking firm along the head, faster, faster, until- 

“Oh, God!”

Orgasms were more intense when Light watched him, when the eyes of God judged him from his place in heaven, when he knew that he was wanted. His cum shoots hot and thick between his fingers, catching most of it so that he doesn’t have to clean the floor later. He’s still shooting pathetic little spurts when Light speaks again.

“Good boy.”

**Author's Note:**

> So, uh, don't do any of that at home. If you loved/hated this, want to see more, or maybe want to suffocate me with a pillow please comment and let me know!! I take requests over on Tumblr for related Death Note garbage.
> 
> my tumblr: https://zaiibach.tumblr.com/  
> my twitter: https://twitter.com/bitchyagami
> 
> Please talk to me. I promise I'll work on Twin Stranger soon.


End file.
